


wishing only wounds the heart

by mylordshesacactus



Category: RWBY
Genre: Boundaries, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, Fade to Black, Insecurity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-17
Updated: 2020-02-17
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:47:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22764994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mylordshesacactus/pseuds/mylordshesacactus
Summary: Don't...don't tell me I'm beautiful, you don't have to lie to me—
Relationships: Robyn Hill/Fiona Thyme
Comments: 31
Kudos: 143





	wishing only wounds the heart

**Author's Note:**

> Nobody ELSE was ficcing my headcanon about Fiona's "I'm Not That Girl" complex.
> 
> Anyway, happy birthday @ myself! For my birthday this year I get [checks notes] to hurt y'all with some Springthyme angst. Wait a minute--

Robyn pins her against the bedroom door the moment it closes.

Fiona’s giggling and can’t stop, which is only a problem because it makes it hard to meet Robyn’s kisses halfway. To be fair, Robyn’s equally breathless, grinning widely and high on her own success.

They’re far from the finish line, still. She will always be the underdog, and the first of the Council debates is still almost two months away. But Robyn started out standing on broken Dust crates in the corners of run-down taverns in the poorest parts of Mantle, and tonight, for the first time, she was cheered off the stage by a larger crowd than Jacques Schnee has ever managed for one of his rallies.

Tomorrow, they’ll go over all the coverage and figure out how to counteract the opposition’s spin. But tonight, tonight—

Tonight Robyn deserves to  _ savor  _ her victory. And—Fiona’s mind stutters as Robyn strips off her overcoat with a businesslike motion and tosses it aside, hauling Fiona in for another searing kiss—something about—there’s a saying, isn’t there? About victors and spoils and other things that are not nearly as important as the fact that there are still  _ way  _ too many layers between Fiona’s skin and Robyn’s fingers.

“You know,” Robyn teases, dipping her head to catch Fiona’s ear between her teeth and giving a light tug. “We can always watch the Atlesian news cycle—”

“Robyn,” she complains.

“Spend a few hours taking notes on the talking heads,” Robyn continues as if her hands aren’t expertly slipping Fiona’s belt free. “Maybe get a head start on filing taxes—”

“Robyn!”

“Shh.” Robyn doesn’t bother hiding the way her lips twitch as she jerks her head to the side. “Thin walls. Don’t want to traumatize Joanna. Think you can handle that, lambchop?”

“You’re an ass,” Fiona gripes. Robyn doesn’t deny it, but she brings one of Fiona’s hands to her lips to kiss her fingers, and Fiona’s false irritation melts embarrassingly fast.

“And you’re beautiful,” is the retort.

Fiona rolls her eyes. “Sure.”

“You are,” insists a smiling Robyn. “That’s not  _ my  _ fault.”

Uncomfortable now, Fiona takes her hand back. “Don’t say that,” she says.  _ “Beautiful _ is a little too far.”

Robyn frowns.

It’s not the first time Fiona’s brought this up, but it’s the first time she’s been this direct. “There are other things that are more important,” she says, trying to get this over with. “It’s fine, just… don’t call me that, it’s not true.”

Robyn brushes Fiona’s hair back from her face. “Fiona,” she says, worried and sincere. “You’re—” 

_ “Don’t!  _ Don’t  _ say  _ that, Robyn!”

The intensity of her reaction makes Robyn snatch her hand back like it’s been burned. It takes Fiona by surprise, too; she backs across the room, and when Robyn moves to follow her she doesn’t know why she flinches further away. She watches shock and hurt flash across Robyn’s face; but her lover holds up both hands in a nonthreatening motion and sits carefully on the edge of the bed.

Fiona flexes her hands, working them out of the tight fists she hadn’t intended to make.

“Sorry,” she whispers. “I can’t handle it.”

Robyn’s expression is...unhappy, still, too somber, and the silence stretches long enough that Fiona is afraid she won’t let it go this time. Things had been going so well tonight, she thinks, heart sinking. They’d been happy, Robyn had been relaxed and enthusiastic and the closest to carefree she’d been in ages.

Trust Fiona and her stupid insecurities to mess that up.

Finally, though, Robyn relents. It shows in her eyes, the tension fading from her face, and some of the guilt loosens its stranglehold on Fiona’s stomach.

“All right,” she says, just a little too softly. But there’s still a slight tightness in the set of her eyebrows. Fiona knows it too well—Robyn carries the heaviest of her worries there, the future of Mantle, the desperate poverty, the lack of faunus protections, the abuses deep in the worst mines. And this, apparently. It feels stupid, except that Fiona’s not capable of doubting Robyn’s judgement that way. “Come here.”

It’s gentle, said with a smile and an outstretched hand; palm-down, fingers loose and relaxed. Robyn’s Semblance, the outward reflection of her soul, has always shown itself as an open palm, one half of an offered handshake, a call to action and a defiant demand for good faith, for honesty. On nights like this, calling Fiona to her side, she’s careful to change the gesture. A signal and a summons, but not a challenge. Not a command.

It’s gentle, said with a smile and a gesture of welcome; but Robyn doesn’t call her  _ lambchop, _ and the absence aches.

Fiona takes her hand—she’s not really capable of doing anything else, even if she wanted to—and lets herself be pulled into Robyn’s lap. The soft sigh of relief into her hair is...she hadn’t expected that, blinks and looks up in surprise, asking with her wide eyes and the cant of her ears what Robyn could possibly be thinking.

She gets a reassuring smile in return. Robyn’s fingers card expertly through her messy hair, plucking at loose curls and massaging Fiona’s scalp without ever quite pulling, scritching gently around the base of her ears, never putting pressure anywhere that might hurt. 

Which is  _ not _ an answer, thank you very much.

Unfortunately, Fiona can’t...quite remember what the question was, exactly. Her brain turns that conundrum over slowly as her eyes drift closed, as she’s guided close to Robyn’s chest to nuzzle under her chin with a low hum. Probably not important, she thinks fuzzily, fingers playing with the buttons of Robyn’s shirt. Definitely not as important as the careful way Robyn readjusts their position so that Fiona straddles her, so she can pull their hips flush.

And Robyn’s not the only one with good ideas. The soft skin under her jaw is… well it’s  _ right _ there. And while Robyn’s distracted by a tongue dancing along that sensitive spot it’s  _ so _ easy for Fiona to slide her hands up and pull her hair free of its simple ponytail…

Robyn chuckles, the sound trailing off into another sigh as she rests her hands on Fiona’s hips.

“I never wanted to hurt you,” she murmurs.

“You didn’t.” The lie is reflexive.

“Fiona,” says Robyn, not harsh, but firm all the same.

Fiona can  _ feel  _ her ears drooping. Apparently, they’re finally having this argument for real.

“I  _ know  _ you love me,” she says. Robyn’s guided her head back so she can’t hide, but she can’t make eye contact either. And she’s suddenly not sure what to do with her hands, so she flutters around a bit before resting them on Robyn’s shoulders and staring determinedly at her own fingers. “Okay? Isn’t that good enough? I’m  _ smart, _ Robyn! I’m useful. And I’ve got good hearing, I can see in the dark, the only person I know who’s a better staff fighter than me is Joanna. And I don’t know about you, but  _ I _ think I’m funny. And, you know...nice? I guess? I don’t think I’m a... _ bad _ person?”

Robyn arches an eyebrow. She’s still got that awful, distant, sad look in her eyes, but at least there’s a hint of fond exasperation in her voice when she finally speaks. That’s good. That’s a lot more natural.

“You’re a good person, Fiona,” she says, and Fiona flicks her ears in acknowledgement.

“See?” She swallows, the brief eye contact almost too much to handle right now. “So it’s fine. I don’t need platitudes, okay? Those are the only things that ever make me think you don’t mean it. The rest of the time I  _ believe  _ you when you say you love me the way I am. But I  _ hate  _ it when you lie to me.”

Robyn opens her mouth to protest. Fiona, who’s very tired of always seeming to lose this argument, puts a hand over her mouth.

“You always act like I have some kind of weird self-hatred thing going on,” she complains. “I’m just telling the truth. We own  _ mirrors, _ Robyn. You’ve seen yourself. I’ve seen myself. You’re the most breathtaking woman on Remnant, and it doesn’t upset me that you’re not dating me for my looks, all right? I just want you to stop acting like you have to pretend for me to be happy.”

Robyn’s eyes narrow. Fiona flinches back from that enough that she can’t even put up a token resistance when her hand is pulled away from Robyn’s mouth. She  _ knows  _ that particular dangerous expression—the one Robyn wears when she has an argument to make and, come Grimm or blizzard or storm of fire, by every god on Remnant you are  _ going  _ to hear it—and the number of times it’s  _ ever  _ been directed at one of the three of them can be counted on the fingers of one hand.

_ “Why,” _ she snaps, “are you so  _ convinced  _ I’m pretending? Fiona, when have I  _ ever  _ lied to you? How can you  _ possibly  _ expect me to just—” She cuts herself off, squeezes her eyes shut, takes a deep breath. When she opens her eyes again, speaks again, her voice is much calmer. “I’m sorry. It’s not fair to be angry with you over this.”

“No kidding,” Fiona mutters, which is also unfair, but her heart is still hammering and she has to consciously choose to bring her shoulders down from around her ears. Robyn’s eyes tighten as she notices; two fingers come up, brushing tenderly down the line of Fiona’s jaw. This time, Fiona’s shoulders relax on their own.

“I’m sorry,” Robyn says again, softer. “But I hate that you can’t see it. You’re...well. If you don’t want me to…”

“I’m  _ cute, _ Robyn,” Fiona corrects her, controlling her instinctive reaction against the words she knows were almost said. She manages a smile. “I will accept ‘adorable’ because I work very hard for it. But I’m cute at best.”

Robyn, lavender eyes soft and sad, reaches up to cup her cheek.

“I’m never going to agree with you,” she says quietly. “But I can stop saying it. At least for now.”

Fiona is not a fan of the caveat.

But she also...she doesn’t want to fight about this. It’s such a stupid, petty thing to let escalate, especially tonight, when they’d been in such a good mood. And it’s such a  _ Robyn  _ thing to dig in her heels over, too. So of course, of  _ course, _ a part of Fiona can’t help but love her for it.

Silently, she nods.

Of course, Robyn, because she’s Robyn, can’t quite let her have the last word that way.

“Will you accept ‘pretty’?” she asks. Her voice is quiet and serious; but her fingers are still stroking, coaxing, under Fiona’s jaw, making her eyelashes flutter. “Is that something you can believe?”

Fiona thinks about it. Then she guides Robyn’s fingers away from her face, because they are extremely distracting, and thinks about it some more.

“...yeah,” she decides, and surprises herself with how easily the smile comes. “Yeah. I can do pretty on a good day.”

There’s a stubborn flicker behind Robyn’s eyes as she visibly considers arguing the point; but whatever she sees on Fiona’s face or in the nervous set of her ears, it banishes the brief look. Fiona relaxes as a warm smile takes its place, as Robyn guides her in for a long, soft kiss before easing Fiona’s shirt over her head.

“Then come here and kiss me, pretty girl.”

Which is what Fiona’s been  _ wanting  _ to do all night, so it’s not exactly a tall order. And for all her fears that the irrational outburst might have...ruined something, spoiled the mood at least, she doesn’t feel any hesitation. Robyn is too good to her for that. A bit of frustration isn’t enough to harm anything between them for long, not if they have any time at all to...talk about it. Robyn  _ had _ listened to her, she  _ understands  _ even if not entirely. The reconnection is a warm glow in Fiona’s chest, stronger than before.

It’s possible she’s a  _ tiny  _ bit overenthusiastic.

Of course it’s also possible that Robyn  _ meant  _ to pull Fiona down on top of her; but she’s usually a little subtler about it. More graceful, at least. But if they land slightly more heavily than either of them planned, Fiona’s hands buried in silky hair, Robyn’s arm tight around her waist and her free hand trapped between them, Fiona’s chin caught in a grip just firm enough to send a thrill down her spine…

Look, neither of them are exactly complaining.

Fiona makes short work of Robyn’s remaining layers, which is harder than it should be because Robyn is  _ not  _ helping. She  _ claims  _ to be helping, which is the kind of  _ blatant, bald-faced lie _ you’d expect of a politician and Fiona tells her so, several times.

Robyn quirks that eyebrow again, a hint of smirk finally breaking through her lingering concern.

“Do you want me to stop?” she asks, insufferably smug. Fiona glares at her and mutters darkly that she does not.

_ Helping,  _ Fiona thinks mockingly, as Robyn runs a nail along the inside edge of her ear. It makes the ear twitch violently of its own accord, but also sends a jittery spike of electricity to all kinds of interesting places, because as Robyn damn well knows, the wires for ‘that tickles’ tend to get crossed in these circumstances.  _ Helping _ is also certainly one word for the way Robyn’s fingers squeeze idly over Fiona’s thighs, flutter up to tug lightly at her hair, trace teasing circles over her chest…

She does eventually manage to get Robyn out of her shirt, with absolutely no assistance whatsoever. That done, Fiona glares at her, grabs her wrists, and lunges forward to pin them next to Robyn’s head.

The shocked, impressed look she gets in response nearly makes her squirm in delight. That would ruin the effect a bit, though, so she manages to control the impulse. Eyebrows vanished into her hair, Robyn actually licks her lips as she trails wide eyes down what she can see of Fiona from her position.

“Evening, lambchop.” She gives a cocky, lopsided grin. “Something I can do for you? Come here often? Want to?”

“You— _ Robyn!” _ Fiona protests as the innuendo catches her several seconds too late. 

Robyn’s only response is a soft laugh that goes straight to her core. Lavender eyes drop to Fiona’s lips in a clearer order than anything she’s ever barked on a battlefield. Which, Fiona is pretty certain  _ she’s  _ supposed to be in charge here right now; but she doesn’t  _ not  _ want to kiss Robyn either, and anyway she’s already obeyed the silent command before she has much time to think about it.

She’s not sure how long it’s been before Robyn clutches the back of her neck. She’s  _ really  _ not sure how or when Robyn got free of her grip, but in fairness Fiona has been distracted and wasn’t trying very hard to maintain control of her prisoner anyway.

The one thing Fiona’s always been certain of is Robyn, herself. All three of them are almost more in tune with Robyn than with themselves; Fiona’s pretty sure she’d notice a change in Robyn’s body language before she noticed someone cutting her own hand off, if it came down to it.

“You know,” Robyn murmurs against her mouth. Fiona rolls her eyes, absolutely certain she knows where this is going. She’s right. Robyn’s never been  _ great  _ at letting things go. “Beauty’s in the eye of the beholder.”

The shadows are gone from her eyes, this time. It’s...not joking. There’s too much real care behind the words—Robyn  _ isn’t  _ going to let this go, not in the long term. But she’s smiling in the moment, and while her expression is calm and open her eyes dart between Fiona’s and occasionally over to her ears. She’s prepared to drop it for now, if it causes Fiona any more pain.

It...doesn’t, oddly enough. She trusts Robyn not to push. And she understands where the stubbornness comes from, even if it’s misplaced. But she really isn’t interested in talking about it any more.

So instead of shutting her down entirely, Fiona flicks her nose. “The beholder is  _ biased, _ Robyn.”

Gods and spirits bless her, Robyn takes the cue willingly enough. Without missing a beat, the caution evaporates into a relaxed grin as she lays back.

“Why,  _ Miss Thyme,” _ she exclaims, propping herself up on one elbow and placing a hand over her heart. “Are you suggesting my position on this issue might be compromised in some way by an undisclosed conflict of interest?”

Fiona groans to cover up her instinctive reaction, which had been a delighted giggle. She can’t make things  _ that  _ easy.

“Robyn...”

Robyn’s grin just gets wider. “I can’t  _ believe  _ you would make such an accusation. The mere suggestion that my judgement might be influenced—”

Fiona kisses her again, deep and long and definitely, one hundred percent to shut her up and not for any other reasons. When she finally pulls back, Robyn looks up at her with a smile that is finally, gently happy.

Then she opens her mouth again.

Fiona holds up a finger to forestall whatever terrible thing is about to be said. “If I eat you out,” she asks bluntly, “Will you stop making awful politics jokes?”

For several seconds she can see Robyn struggling with the urge to protest that she makes  _ excellent  _ politics jokes. Maybe it’s Robyn’s own passionate commitment to truth and honesty that prevents her from actually saying it, but Fiona suspects that’s not the only reason, because when Robyn finally settles down her eyes are sparkling.

“Yes, Fiona,” she murmurs with half-lidded eyes, soft and sweetly obedient and  _ absolutely  _ making fun of her.

Fiona flicks her again on principle.


End file.
